


Isolated Daydreams

by Starlinghue



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Fantasizing, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, POV Third Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Burn, Tattoos, cabin fever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 15:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21304673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlinghue/pseuds/Starlinghue
Summary: When it wasn't mealtime, or the drunken conversations that followed it, the two of them tiptoed around each other as if nothing had changed. They carefully avoided being in the same room, and it was almost as though they were still strangers. This was maddening, though at the same time, it was comforting. Winslow didn't know if he could stand meeting Wake's eyes during the day, not when the old man had done nothing but sit around twiddling his thumbs while he was the one slaving away, shovelling coal and dragging his feet through the mud to keep the place in order.
Relationships: Thomas Howard/Thomas Wake, Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow
Comments: 15
Kudos: 117





	Isolated Daydreams

**Author's Note:**

> _"In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;_  
_His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;_  
_But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,_  
_And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind."_  
—William Dimmond, The Mariner's Dream.

The cottage was dark, empty, and completely silent without the old fellow scuffling about. Only the heavy hum of the foghorn systematically broke through the quiet, and it was a sound that provided no comfort. Winslow— he was still adjusting to the name, still trying to convince himself that it belonged to him now— had grown tired under the weight of the day's work. But his mind became restless once again as he scrubbed the supper dishes clean, and there was little else for a man to do in the dark with a restless mind.

It was better to take care of himself in the supply shed; there was less of a chance of being intruded upon. So Winslow treaded out into the windy night, bundled in his coat, looking firmly ahead as if he were set about to do something important. This was in case the old man should catch a glimpse of him from his post, though that seemed very unlikely. From what Winslow could tell, his new employer seemed to be rather taken with the lantern. Why else should he want to be the only one who tended to it?

Winslow glanced up at the lighthouse as he made his way toward the shed. It shined diligently above him, casting a beam over the sea. There was something almost whimsical in its glimmer— perhaps this was because it was the only bright thing left on the rock. The light seemed untouched by all of its misery.

For a moment, he thought he saw a shape move in front of the light. The old man. Winslow turned away, banishing all thoughts of him from his mind.

In his pocket, the carving of the mermaid grew heavy against his chest. It held the weight of a promise.

…

The weeks drew on. Winslow found himself torn between resenting every gruelling task the island had for him to relishing them. The work kept him busy. There was little else to occupy his mind during the day, except for that damned gull that seemed to be personally harassing him. It wasn't the only source of frustration, however, for the old sailor ran the place like a tyrant. He was pleasant enough at mealtime, apart from the odd remark or a drunken swipe, but he constantly berated Winslow for how unsatisfactory he found all of his hard work without so much as lifting a finger of his own. The way he clung to the lighthouse's keys, going as far as sleeping with them on his person, and the way he kept his record books locked away, it was all annoyingly secretive. Winslow blamed it all on superstition— he'd heard that sailors were an untrusting lot.

Still, when night came, and there was no work left to be done, Winslow's mind crept uneasily towards the old man's behaviour. He couldn't help himself from wondering what the lantern looked like, after all, he was putting so much effort into maintaining something that he wasn't allowed to see. The desire to be able to look at it, just once, nagged at him in a strange way.

It didn't help that he had fallen into the habit of glancing up at the tower every night as he snuck away to the shed. The pattern was the only thing keeping him from confronting the reason he had come here in the first place, but it was growing more and more difficult to keep his guilty conscience at bay. This fixation on the light— unnerving and unhelpful, was, at the very least, distracting him.

…

He asked the old man to call him Winslow. It might not have been the wisest idea— hearing the name, even when spoken in begrudging amusement in the scratchy, low tones of his temporary companion— only served to remind him of how he had stolen it.

But even that was better than being called _lad_. Winslow found that he preferred a false name to the title of a child.

Strangely, the old man had taken his request to heart. He still stumbled over the familiarity, but he was making an honest effort to do as Winslow had asked. It was gratifying, in a way, to have made any kind of effect on him.

"Ye alright there, Winslow?" The sailor greeted him with this question early one morning, just as he was returning from his shift with the lantern. Even half asleep, Winslow could see that the old fellow looked flushed, that his shoulders were heaving and his breath was shaking like he'd been running a mile.

What on earth was he doing up there with that light? Winslow had thought he'd dreamt the image of the old man standing buck nude in its shine, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Aye, sir." Winslow answered, trying to keep himself from narrowing his eyes, trying not to look at the rise and fall of the other man's chest as he shrugged out of his overcoat. There was a tattoo under his collarbone— from what little Winslow had seen of it in the past four weeks, he'd gathered that there were three sails, all presumably stretching down to a ship.

"Good lad," the old man said, and then he caught himself before collapsing onto his cot. "Good man."

As he snored, Winslow smirked. He contemplated stealing the keys from the other wickie, just for an hour or two, just to get a look at the damn thing, but then thought better of it. In two days, he would be gone. It was probably best to just leave it alone.

…

Within a day, Winslow had regrettably solved a shred of the mystery surrounding what went on when the other man went up to the lantern. It seemed they had both come to rely on a similar form of release during the cold, empty evenings. The only difference was that Winslow did his business hunched over in the dark, and the sailor did his reverently in front of the light.

By the next day, Winslow had even solved the mystery of the old man's name. _How cruel,_ he thought, _that we should both be called Thomas_. There must have been hundreds of names in the English language and Wake just so happened to possess the very one that Winslow had been trying to avoid.

That cruel coincidence, along with all the strangeness of the island, and thoughts of the gull he'd killed— the man he'd killed— well, that had been enough to drive Winslow to drink again. He didn't stop Wake as he poured him glass after glass. The burn in his throat was a welcome distraction from everything else. Come morning, his head would be aching, and he would be gone, the island and Wake far, far behind him, and his whole life ahead.

Or so he had thought. The storm that blew in that evening was violent and undeniable. When the ship failed to arrive to retrieve him, Winslow's heart sank down into his stomach, and he began to worry that perhaps killing the gull really had cursed him 

According to Wake, it could be months before the weather cleared up enough for another boat to be sent their way. Winslow swallowed that thought about as easily as he swallowed the bourbon Wake offered him every night.

Their patterns altered— in the daytime, Winslow worked, miserable, soaked and sore, and in the evening, the two of them drank and sang and bickered until they were blue in the face. Then Wake would stalk off towards the lantern, and Winslow towards the shed, neither of them saying a word about this dirty business, but both knowing well enough what it was.

...

When it wasn't mealtime, or the drunken conversations that followed it, the two of them tiptoed around each other as if nothing had changed. They carefully avoided being in the same room, and it was almost as though they were still strangers. This was maddening, though at the same time, it was comforting. Winslow didn't know if he could stand meeting Wake's eyes during the day, not when the old man had done nothing but sit around twiddling his thumbs while he was the one slaving away, shovelling coal and dragging his feet through the mud to keep the place in order.

It didn't help that Winslow kept conjuring up the image of a mermaid to get him through his arousal, bare chested, terrifying and beautiful with a shriek that was louder and more alarming than the sound of the foghorn. She began to haunt him during his working hours, no longer contained to his dreams. Despite the confusing terror she instilled, she was still a more welcome image than that of the real Ephraim Winslow. The one with fair hair and a kind smile, the one who had lain Thomas Howard flat on his back and fucked him long and good while the afternoon sun beat down on them both. The Winslow who had died, drowned and smashed between floating logs, pushed cruelly forwards by an unwavering current. 

Winslow shuddered at these memories, hazy and warm and horrible as they were. They only left him feeling hollow and helpless, and he was beginning to doubt their legitimacy. The mermaid seemed real enough, sometimes, but surely she could not be. So how was Winslow to know if he had pushed Ephraim into that river or had simply watched him fall? He was no longer able to discern which was the truth and which was the lie he kept on telling himself.

"Ye alright there, Winslow?" Wake often repeated this phrase by way of greeting now, when they passed each other in the halls, or when their eyes met across their shared chambers. This time, he posed the question as Winslow was scrubbing mindlessly over the kitchen floorboards.

"Aye sir," Winslow answered, voice scratchy from lack of use, or potentially the amount of alcohol he'd been consuming as of late. "Nearly done."

"So ye are," Wake agreed, which was a relief. Winslow still grudged him for the awful rant he'd gone off on in the early weeks about his unsatisfactory work on the floors. "Stand up, lad."

Winslow stood up. It startled him something fierce when Wake reached out towards his face. The old man had nicked him more than once in his abrupt bursts of anger, but this had not been intended as a blow, Winslow realized mid-flinch. Wake's hand hesitated, and then carried on forwards. With some bewilderment, Winslow allowed the older man to touch his cheek, shocking him as he gently scraped his fingers over his skin.

"What's all this for?" Wake huffed, pulling his hand back to reveal that the tips of his fingers had turned damp.

Winslow blinked, taken aback. He had not realized he had been crying.

"Didn't even notice," he mumbled, ducking his head in embarrassment. "Must've been the dust. Stirred something up."

"Aye, it did, did it?" Wake murmured, regarding Winslow with some suspicion, or perhaps concern. With Wake, the emotions seemed interchangeable. "Then what's with yer hands shaking? Yer not overworked, are ye?"

_Yes,_ Winslow wanted to shout, _I am overworked_. But instead, he shook his head. "No, sir."

"Jesus, yer trembling." Wake observed, and now he really did sound concerned. "Sit down, Winslow, I'll pour us something warm. No good to work on an upset mind, says I."

Though he wasn't all that tired, and he had been upset for the better part of six weeks, Winslow was not about to dismiss the idea of a break. "Thank you, sir."

"It's this bleeding weather," Wake muttered as he rummaged about for drinks. "S'no good for the spirit. Easy to lose yer head when the days all blur together like this."

"At least we're not at sea," Winslow mused, closing his eyes as he sank into one of the chairs in front of the stove. "No risk of drowning."

"Aye, but still a risk of madness." Wake appeared next to him with a glass of rum, looking pensive. "Drink up, lad, better to lose your head to this than to lose it to the storm."

"Is it really?" Winslow asked, but he drank anyway.

Wake only shrugged and sipped his own drink in response. They went on like that for the rest of the evening, not bothering to pace themselves, supping on scraps and resentfully sulking in each other's presence afterwards.

They were both quite drunk before Winslow asked, "What have you got drawn on that chest of yours, anyway?"

Delighted, Wake unbuttoned his vest and shirt and pulled down his undershirt to reveal the the ship with three sails that rested beneath his collarbone. It was less impressive than Winslow had imagined it, but it was enthralling to behold nonetheless. Like a puzzle that had finally come together.

Wake prattled on about why he'd gotten the tattoo in the first place, but Winslow was not really paying attention. He was watching the way the image moved with Wake's skin as he breathed, and he was suddenly overcome with the need to reach out and touch it.

"Ye alright there?" Wake asked again, having caught Winslow staring. They were sitting on the floor now, cross legged, observing each other from a safe distance.

Winslow couldn't think of a reply. His eyes darted between Wake's narrowed eyes and his exposed skin. Without warning, Wake reached out and snatched Winslow's hand off the floor, spreading his palm and fingers over the tattoo as if he were exasperated that he'd been the one to do so.

"Don't feel like much of a scar, see?" Wake scoffed. "It's long faded into the skin. Nearly twenty years ago, it was, when I had this done."

Winslow cleared his throat, careful to avoid the other man's gaze. Wake's fingers were thin and cold, curling around his knuckles like a hook through a fish. He traced his tattoo with unwarranted fascination. "How'd your wife like it?"

Wake laughed, a low, scathing sound. "She didn't. Threatened to take a knife to it to botch up the job, but I reckon she knew what she was getting into, marrying a sailor. Ever think of getting one done, yerself?"

Winslow considered this, pulling his hand away. When Wake's fingers brushed past his own, he felt the jolt of an electric current running between them, enticing and dangerous.

"No," he admitted honestly. "I'm too indecisive for something that permanent."

…

The storm raged on, the days grew hazier, and the work never stopped. Winslow hated Wake, sometimes, for still insistently pushing every grueling task onto him even in this awful weather. He hated him something fierce, but then again, he didn't.

They spent hours together in silence, and then more hours in uproarious noise. They drank themselves stupid and then drank themselves sober. The mornings and evenings blurred together in one wet, confusing mess. It was dizzying and sickening. Horrible, but brilliant.

One night, after shouting shanties until they could scarcely breathe, they danced together in the sitting room. They'd taken to bounding around the place in jigs before, anything to lighten the mood, but this was a slow dance. It was the kind that ought to be reserved for a couple of lovesick fools on their wedding night.

Wake was singing something that Winslow didn't recognize, quiet and low, his voice a steady rhythm that kept them rocking back and forth like a rowboat on timid waves. Because he was shorter, he'd taken the role of the woman, and Winslow had one arm around his waist. The other had veered up dangerously close to Wake's neck, cradling him even closer.

They weren't looking at each other. Winslow had buried his face so deep into the crook of Wake's shoulder that he could have been anywhere else. He had become so used to the imagined skin of the mermaid, cold and slimy, with nothing comforting there at all. In his arms, Wake was warm and soft, surprisingly so. He smelled like tobacco, dust, and kerosene.

They stilled as Wake's song drew to a close, no longer caught in its peaceful current. Winslow joined him for the last chorus, albeit clumsily. The room around them had suddenly transformed into something sharp and dangerous again, but still, Winslow didn't let go. He was only dimly aware of Wake moving against him, of his bony fingers brushing the underside of his ear, furling into his hair.

He drew back for a moment to look at Wake, aware that he was doing the same. Their eyes met, hesitant, and then Winslow watched as Wake glanced towards his lips. For a moment, he didn't understand what was happening until it was too late, and Wake's beard was close enough to taste. 

Startled, Winslow shoved the old man away, stumbling backwards like a wild, frightened animal. Wake laughed at him— more out of bewilderment than anything— but the sound suddenly seemed so cruel that Winslow wanted to reach out and strike him.

And so he did. And so Wake struck back. This went on for a little while, the two of them trading blows, shouts and breathless, enraged laughter. Another dangerous pattern.

At one point, they drew close again, with Wake's hands seizing the collar of Winslow's shirt, pulling him down to his level so he could snarl in his face. Winslow gasped as their foreheads came together in a painful manner, and then he continued to gasp realizing that Wake's eyes were on his, open wide, frazzled but focused.

Then, like he hadn't been rejecting the notion all along, Winslow kissed him. Because he knew it was going to happen, and that it may have already happened, but this time he wanted to be in control of it. His dreams and reality came together all at once, like a hideously drawn out thunderclap. The high shrieks of the laughing mermaid rang in his ears, sickly and shrill.

Wake, all crooked teeth and harsh breath, kissed him back. He wasn't at all bad at it, though there was a distinct impression in his movements that implied that he had fallen out of practice. His hands found Winslow's stomach, and his tongue wasted no time curling into his mouth, eager to please, vying for control.

In that moment, Thomas— unable to stand the thought of abusing Winslow's name any farther— crumbled. Wake would have him. Or he would have Wake. Either way, it would ruin them both, and there was no stopping it.

"Steady there," Wake whispered when they broke apart, his hand snaking down Thomas's trousers, his gaze unbelievably calm. "Don't lose yer head."

Thomas glared at him. With uncalled for ferocity, he seized Wake's wrist, pulling his hands away from his pants. He backed the old man up against the nearest wall, pinning his arms just a little above his head. Wake's breath was hot against his neck and jaw, his inhales short and excited.

"Don't you go telling me what to do," Thomas muttered sharply, a warning he was only willing to extend once out of courtesy. "Now, hold still."

Wake didn't move when Thomas released his hands, and he only raised his eyebrows when Thomas crouched down to his knees in front of him, his hands on his hips for balance.

It would be better this way, Thomas told himself as he unbuttoned Wake's trousers and undergarments. If he had allowed Wake to stroke him off first, the old man would have expected him to return the favour, would have demanded it of him with a sense of superiority. Thomas would not allow him to have that kind of authority. He would not resign himself to becoming something weak, something for Wake to push around as he pleased. He had to be the one in charge of this moment.

Risking a glance up at Wake before he took him into his mouth, Thomas was both delighted and shocked by how surprised he looked. Wake almost seemed afraid of him, or at the very least afraid of what they were doing. Suddenly, it became clear to Thomas that Wake was scared of being touched by someone else.

_What's done this to you?_ Thomas wanted to ask, but he didn't, because they both knew well enough what had made Wake like this. It was that damned lantern. The secrecy of it all. The frightening comfort he took in it. Thomas both pitied and envied him for having something so personal and sacred.

So, without further delay, he took Wake's cock into his mouth and nearly swallowed it. He bobbed his head accordingly so Wake wouldn't gag him as his hips bucked forward, and Thomas focused on breathing through his nose, keeping himself balanced against the older man's waist. His eyes darted wildly from Wake's pubic hairs to his half-exposed navel, and then to his face. The sounds the old man made were pathetic at first, the desperate whines of a starved dog. Then he seemed to remember himself, and he grunted a little, digging his fingers into Thomas' hair and wordlessly demanding more from him. 

Thomas could take these kinds of commands. The work was worth it, to see Wake shaking like that, to hear him splutter and nearly shout with pleasure. It wasn't long before it was over, and Thomas jerked his head back, careful to swallow the load so as not to stain the carefully mopped floorboards. He made a point of looking directly at Wake as he did it, and Wake regarded him with the kind of fear and awe that a sailor would usually reserve for the sea.

Thomas got to his feet just as Wake slumped down against the wall, their positions now perfectly reversed. The only difference was that Wake was trembling and Thomas undid his own trousers, setting himself loose with practiced ease.

Wake made no movement to touch him, so Thomas touched himself. There was no shameful urgency in the action now, as there so often was each time he pulled himself off in the shed. Most days Thomas was racing against his own mind, trying desperately to finish himself off before any more troubling thoughts could catch up with him.

But now there was only him, and Wake, and the hollow sounds of both of their breathing.

Wake reached out as Thomas began to up the pace, and then with sudden certainty, he seized Thomas by the balls, yanking him forwards. Thomas groaned in spite of himself, both in pleasure and in pain. Wake's fingernails were like cool daggers against his skin, but his hands were a warm, welcome weight.

He didn't take Thomas into his mouth, but he licked the head of his cock and rubbed his balls reverently as Thomas struggled to continue to handle himself. Wake's beard scratched against his skin in a foreign, pleasant way. Thomas felt a sting of pleasure creep through his entire spine as Wake began to lick at him, coating the length of his shaft with saliva, doing everything except putting it into his mouth. It was torture. He was teasing him.

At one point, Wake's tongue skipped over Thomas' fingers, and then he abandoned his cock entirely. He took all of his digits into his mouth like it was nothing, smirking around them as Thomas' cock was left frigid and erect, still coated in his spit. Thomas glowered at him and Wake nipped at his fingers as he pulled away. In an instant, Thomas came, startling them both. His load spilled over onto Wake's face and chest, and Thomas cursed under his breath, realizing that he had definitely stained Wake's sweater.

The old man laughed, though it was closer to a gasp, and then he looked up at Thomas wryly. "Ye better clean this out when I'm done with it, lad."

"Aye, sir." Thomas nodded, a little stupidly. Internally, he scorned himself for relinquishing his own authority so quickly.

They slumped together in the corner of the room, exhausted and half delirious. Wake grabbed a bottle of absinthe and they took turns sipping from it, gagging from the taste, then laughing at each other for it. By the time they lapsed into silence again, the storm had stirred up, and the windows rattled with every gust of wind.

Thomas, worn out and ashamed, told Wake his name. He should've stopped there, and Wake tried to get him to, but Thomas pressed on. The secrets he'd been holding in were soon spilling out of him like the rainwater that overflowed through the pots they'd set on the floor to catch the leaks. There was nothing left for him to do but to tell the truth, as horrible and damning as it was. Thomas knew that trusting Wake was essentially going to be about as helpful as diving headlong off the rocks and into the riptide, and yet he did it anyway. There was no real reason why, or at least no reason that Thomas was capable of understanding.

After he had confided in Wake, the old man snuck away to the light as he always did. Thomas didn't dare to try following after him, uneager to face the idea of Wake thinking less of him. So, he lay in his cot and cursed himself, falling in and out of dreams and nightmares until suddenly Wake returned, and was crawling into bed with him.

Groggily, Thomas reached for him. He felt the coolness of Wake’s hands on his cheeks, soothingly stroking up towards his hair. It was only when he caught the edges of Wake’s reassuring whispers that Thomas realized he had been crying in his sleep. As Wake drew in closer, laying beside him, Thomas began to sob.

“I’m sorry,” he wept, trembling in Wake’s hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Quit yer yammering.” Wake murmured, but not unkindly. He gently pulled Thomas into an embrace that was not at all dissimilar to how they had been dancing earlier that night, only this time it was on a horizontal angle. Thomas buried his face once again into the crook of Wake’s neck, his consciousness quickly fading. Sensing that he was falling asleep again, Wake jostled him lightly. “Now, I ain’t no priest. What ye’ve said to me tonight, I’ve got no power to excuse ye for it.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. He remained curled in Wake’s arms, and stared blankly at his chest.

“I won’t hold it against ye, Tommy.” Wake added, and there was a reluctance in his tone that suggested he couldn’t be sure he was being honest. “Well, perhaps I will.”

“Thank you,” Thomas muttered huskily, his voice hoarse with tears and sleep. “I’d appreciate it if we could put it all past us.”

Wake hummed in agreement, though a hint of uncertainty still seemed to linger in the sound. Carefully, Thomas pulled back just enough so that now he was the one cradling Wake, pulling the old man into the crook of his neck and putting a hand on his hip. The cot was really too small for both of them, but then again, so was the island.

“Weather might be a little clearer tomorrow.” Wake mumbled, daringly hopeful. The lantern’s light glimmered momentarily through the window, illuminating a fraction of his face. For that brief moment, he was rendered surreal and peaceful under its glow, and seeing Wake in that in that light, Thomas felt something much stronger than trust for him. It was strikingly terrifying.

“Aye,” he agreed wearily, and then closed his eyes. “We’ll just have to wait it out.”


End file.
